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He turned to Mrs. ‘When one is penniless, one does not expect a life of ease. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks.
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